


Blank

by Blueleaf12



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Aphantasia, F/M, but i will fill the aphantasia tag with my bare hands, never thought i'd actually post self insert stuff, tfw you tell your significant other you cant see his writing and almost offend him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 07:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18069131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueleaf12/pseuds/Blueleaf12
Summary: Elliott has a new idea for a book, and is running it by his new wife, Rachel. However, in the process, Rachel figures out something shocking about herself, something that she never realized before.





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**Author's Note:**

> This is my self-insert farmer OC for Stardew Valley with Elliott.  
> It wasn't until last November I realized I had Aphantasia, which means that I can't visualize in my mind. It was both a metaphorically eye-opening experience, but also rather traumatizing as an author and artist. So this is incredibly personal to my experience, and how I have experienced writing.  
> I have more stuff with my insert farmer OC, and a headcanon for Elliott I really like, if anyone's interested in more.

It was the beginning of spring, near dusk. Just a little bit chilly, but warm enough to still enjoy the night, with a faint, spring breeze washing over us. It brought along with it the fragrances of the new year.

 

My arms and legs ached from weeding, weeding, and more weeding. But it felt _good_.

 

It also felt good, however, to sit down and rest.

 

With my back against the budding pomegranate tree I planted the summer before, I turned my head to look at the person next to me. It was Elliott, my new husband, my new partner. I gave him a small smile, but he didn’t seem to notice me just yet.

 

Wrapped up in his usual fur coat, he had a book open on his lap. Various inkwells and discarded quills littered the ground near his legs. His fingers (and face) were covered in inked fingerprints.

 

After staring at it for a few more seconds, he took a breath and looked at me. “Okay, I think this as finished as I can get it right now. You still wanted to hear?”

 

I nodded. “Always.” I thought I could doze off to his lovely voice, but his writing was that _amazing_ , I clung onto his words.

 

He gave a gentle smile back. “Alright, dear. Just sit back, relax, and close your eyes. Let me paint a picture for you with my words.”

 

I followed his words and closed my eyes, not thinking much of his pseudo-metaphor. I leaned back against the sturdy tree, my legs sprawled on the picnic blanket we had brought out earlier this evening to sit on together.

 

All I saw was the blackness of my eyelids. Then, he spoke. His low, soft voice fell over the words like honey. Metaphorical honey, that is.

 

This was my thought process:

 

_Who’re these characters again? Oh, wait, I remember now. They came up in chapter three, I think?_

 

_Didn’t that character have brown hair before? Or was it black? With the weird, barely covered neck tattoo? I can’t remember what they look like._

 

_Wait, where the hell was this set again…?_

 

_Hold on, what the hell did that character just do? Is that even humanly possible? I couldn’t follow at all!_

 

The blackness behind my eyelids persisted. It did not waver, did not falter. It did not change.

 

It did not produce the book Elliott was reading out to me.

 

His voice eventually stopped. There was a faint sound of him shutting his book, then he spoke again. “Dear, you can open your eyes now.”

 

My eyes fluttered open, locking with Elliott’s. His eyes shone in excitement, a look he can barely contain.

 

“So,” he said, “how did you like it?”

 

I took a second to mull it over. “Your tone and word choice really set the mood,” I finally said, “and your character interactions are flawless, like always.” I took a breath to mull it over further. “I think I need to read some of the action scenes myself, though. I found them a little hard to follow.” I then shrugged. “But that just might be me.”

 

“...I see.” Elliott said, pulling the book open again and jotting some notes down. “Besides the action scenes, was the rest clear to you? I might have to block the action scenes out again… maybe ask Kent for some pointers… Or for Alex and Sam to block it out for me…” He went back to smudging ink on his face.

 

“I… I guess so?” I said, uncertainty lacing my voice.

 

Elliott’s brow furrowed further. “Was it vivid, at least?”

 

_Vivid…?_ “...Dear, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but… _I didn’t actually see anything_.”

 

Elliott fell silent. He was so silent, just staring at me, I could hear the small river passing through Paradise Farm. The faint sounds of the wildlife that accompanied the river. The incredibly, incredibly, distant sound of Pam’s bus returning from the desert for the night.

 

“I… _what_?” Elliott’s voice rose in pitch in confusion. “I… I don’t—” As a man well versed in words, he now seemed at a complete loss. “Are you messing with me?” He finally asked, his voice a mere whisper.

 

I took his inked hands in mine. “Dear, I would _never_ lie to you. I know how important this is to you.” The words came out in a rush. “I am still absolutely _amazed_ you dedicated a book to me. I will cherish that for as long as I live. I was incredibly moved, Elliott, both by that action, and the novel itself. The ending _still_ gets me.” I paused, not really sure how to word this. “I… I appreciate the beauty of your words, Elliott. Your poetry. The random scraps of paper I find around the house with sentences that only make sense to you. It’s so, so incredibly charming. It’s _you_. I’m just…” I trailed off. “I don’t see it.”

 

He looked at me, stunned. Still at a loss for words.

 

“Do… do you see what you’re writing?” I finally asked.

 

After a second, he nodded.

 

We continued to stare at each other, both not knowing what to say. Until Elliott seemed to get some composure back. He shivered against the colder air that descended on the farm as the night continued. “How about we take this inside…?”

 

***

 

“Is that why you like my character interactions so much?” Elliott finally asked, his mug of decaf coffee left forgotten at the table. “Because you don’t _have_ to see the characters themselves?”

 

My own decaf green tea was left forgotten, too, now long cold. I lost track of how long we were sitting here. I managed a nod. “That’s… more or less how I’d explain it, but… it still feels like it’s more than that. I can _feel_ those characters, Elliott. I appreciate character development and character interactions _because_ I can’t… see what you’re talking about otherwise.”

 

I drummed my fingers on the hard oak table. “Even when you’re describing the setting, I _know_ what it’s supposed to look like. I can _feel_ myself move with your words. I know a meadow tends to be full of flowers and grass, warm to the skin from the sun. The fragrance of flowers. And usually, usually, that’s what I think of, from my own experience. So I’m able to enjoy it that way.” I paused, my fingers resting an inch above the table. “That’s how I always thought it was.” I answered, my voice soft.

 

I continued. “I never told you this, but I was part of a dance studio way back in the day, until I graduated high school. When I was younger, and more prone to stage fright, my teachers would always tell us to ‘picture the audience in their underwear’. I always… thought that was to make us laugh. To lighten the mood and make performing easier. Or a figure of speech!” Another pause. “Not an actual thing that you’d do.”

 

I shook my head, my short curls bouncing. “Either way, I’ve been able to separate a character from their personality, and I can _still_ enjoy their personality because it is still an important part of that character. One that their appearance doesn’t match.”

 

“...I see.” Elliott replied. “I will admit, but I’ve never thought about character work like this before. I wonder if I should change my approach…”

 

“Dear, you don’t have to change your writing and your writing process. This is something… that’s on me. Not you.”

 

“No. I think this is a wonderful way to look at character development. I _want_ to try this. To better myself even _more_.” He paused. “I want you to enjoy my writing too, dear.”

 

I smiled over my long cold tea that I finally remembered to drink. “I appreciate that.” I said.

 

Some silence passed between us, before Elliott broke it. “Are you… okay? With realizing all this?” Another pause. “Have you told anyone else about your experiences?”

 

I looked back down to my mug. “...No, I haven’t told anyone else about this. You’re the first person I’ve told. Mostly because I thought… this was normal.”

 

I took another drink of my cold tea, mostly trying to think of a way to word this next bit. The tea was bitter on my tongue. “Am I okay? That, my dear, I can’t tell you. I feel like my entire world has gone to hell in the last couple of hours, so I think I’m taking this pretty well.”

 

Elliott reached over and took my hand. He gave it a quick squeeze. “Whatever you need, I’m here for you. I’ll be here with you on your own journey. You’ll figure out.

 

“And even if you don’t figure it out completely, dear, the path taken will be your teacher. You have already come so far without knowing, and you can only go up from here. It will take time, sure. Maybe your whole life. But you are an incredibly talented person, dear. Incredibly smart, and _incredibly_ gifted in a way that I could never imagine. You can make it.”

 

It took me a moment to process and take in his words. My composure was slowly cracking, until he reached over to give me a hug.

 

And that’s when I really started to cry.


End file.
